Ardor in Binary
by radiantbaby
Summary: As 10.5 [Handy] shyly tries to become part of alt!Martha's life in the alt!verse, he finds himself reminiscing about the relationship between the Doctor and the other universe's Martha. [10.5/alt!Martha, Ten/Martha]
1. Chapter 1

Author's Notes: This is an older fic from November 2008, but I'm working on posting all my old fics here. Written for _persiflage's_ birthday years ago. Beta'd by _fourzoas. _

Hopefully the switching back and forth between Handy and the Doctor's memories won't be too confusing (the Doctor's memories are the sections in italics)! **WARNING FOR DUBIOUS-CON IN THIS CHAPTER!**

* * *

He walked down the street, hands shoved deep in his pockets — denim, he wasn't sure he'd ever get used to the rough texture of denim — as he tried to keep warm.

He always felt so damned cold in this body. _Was this how humans always felt?_ he thought bitterly, _Always cold, always aching for — no, needing — the warmth of another pressed against his skin._

Skin against skin.

He laughed lightly to himself how he — as his other (alien) self — was always surprised how much humans fixated on such pleasures of the flesh. Now, with fresh senses stretched within the confines of this near-human body, he finally understood, and was surprised instead by how much _he'd_ begun to fixate on such things as well.

_Skin against skin. _

Oh, it was certainly times like this where another man's memories pressed into his thoughts and another man's emotions layered upon his own, both entwining themselves to where it was so very hard for him to truly know where he began and _He_ ended. Perhaps that is why he ached for her, he wondered. His other self was always able to push that aside, _push it down,_ drown it out with all his other (Time Lord) senses, but, no, not in this body. In this body he didn't have that luxury -

In this body, he only had that _need._

* * *

_Martha touched his skin — so much colder then — with trembling fingertips and he knew, without question, from the look in her eyes exactly what she wanted from him._

_He wasn't sure what terrified him more in that moment as the ticking of time slowed and lengthened around them — that she had desired him or that he, despite his own ardent mental protests, desired her back._

_As she pressed herself against his chest, she almost felt too warm against him, her human skin burning against his, but instead of wanting to pull back, it made him feel even more drawn to her fire — wanting to become absolutely consumed by that heat, that blazing desire._

_(Months later when that body held the power and heat of a sun inside, frightened as he burned at both ends, consumed by its thick and overpowering heat, when the words 'Burn with me, Martha' pushed themselves hotly up through his throat and past his lips, he would remember that first time with her, when her own heat had almost consumed him._

_He'd almost lost himself completely to her that first time and, somehow, she had burned so brightly before him that it was as if she had seared her name into his hearts, forever marking him with fire.)_

_He pressed his lips against hers, sighing deeply as the electric connection sparked between them, and then moved his kisses down across her cheek, her jaw, and her neck, whispering against her skin, whispering the words he'd said to her earlier that very evening when she agreed to rejoin his (same old) life:_

_"You were never just a passenger."_

* * *

He pulled the hood of his thick grey sweatshirt over his head as he stood in the cold, trying to hide in shadows as he watched Martha exiting the Tube station to make her way down the road along the pavement. A few people that passed him gave him harsh disapproving looks — likely for his perceived _lumpenproletariat_ appearance — but mostly he was just invisible to the world around him, fading into the shadows of the streets of London.

Sometimes he wished he had a perception filter to wear around his neck, just as she — _or her counterpart on that other world, that is_ — had, but it was times like this that reminded him, with a stark and painful insistence, that he didn't really need it -

_No one saw him, no one cared, he was nothing on this world and, therefore, no one gave notice of him. _

(It was what she - his 'intended' - had said once during a heated argument between them months before, all fiery eyes and blonde hair swirling about in the wind, looking almost as she did that very day she'd killed his other self with a time-laden kiss.

Sometimes he thought she wanted to simply wish his new, near-human-self away, overwhelmed by the burden of him. He often wonders if, now that he is gone from her, she ever regrets such thoughts.)

It was Wednesday though and that was enough to cheer him a bit. He liked Wednesdays, liked the little ritual Martha had of going to the pub with friends after work, liked that amongst the crowd of people and the blaring televisions, he could get close to her as she laughed, drank, and just smiled with those friends at her table there.

It had only been a few sporadic weeks that he'd watched her, but he loved seeing her bright and innocent expression during such times, something — he mused sadly — perhaps never to be seen again in _that other world_ after what _He_ had done to her.

He flinched at the thought, disgust rumbling hard and tight in his belly over Him — the man who abandoned him, the man who abandons them all.

_"Don't let me abandon you."_

* * *

_He lifted her up onto the kitchen counter once she got home from her job at the shop, desperate for some sort of distraction from the incessant - day in, day out, day in, day out — waiting for the two of them to escape that wretched year and finally be free again to travel throughout time and space._

_His fingers were tired from hours upon hours of working the small bits and bobs of the (timey-wimey) detector he was making, but they still gracefully found their way down to caress her breasts and pull and pinch her nipples. His back and legs were aching from curling up on the floor in awkward positions and bending over the evolution of his creation for long stretches of time, but he still began to move against her despite any pain — hips pressing against hips, as he rolled and pressed his arousal between her legs, the fabric of their clothes the only obstacle to pushing himself inside her right then and there._

_"Steady on," she said with a laugh, trying to help them both disrobe, somehow sensing that in that desperate moment he was too swallowed up in his more carnal desires to concentrate on any task so mundane._

_He likened himself to a Venusian Paphian as he looked down at her — drinking her in, ready to worship the Earth-bound goddess before him with rites and movements more antediluvian than himself._

_In minutes their clothes were piled on the floor in a heap and he was slipping his hard length inside her, trembling a bit as she clawed against the skin of his back and whimpered near his ear. He loved those moments, pressed as deeply inside her as he could, their bodies joined — hot pressed against cold, human pressed against alien. Diametrically opposed opposites strung and pulled tight together, linking them at the most base level, deeper than simple physicality, yes, galvanizing the array of all the (expansive) senses within him instead -_

_Oh, in those moments he could see that luminescent string of time that spun out from her and weaved itself throughout her future in flickering flashes and knew that she would soon leave him to be - as he was always in the end — alone._

_He moved quickly against her, her moans now a sweet symphony of sound surrounding them, echoing off the linoleum and wood of the kitchen, echoing in his head like the beating of his hearts. Her legs wrapped around him, drawing him against her again and again and again, drawing him deeper and deeper inside her — to know her, to love her, to touch that human consciousness that swelled within her with such fierce beauty -_

_He suddenly felt himself filled with awe for her — much as he often (no, always) did, but so much more pronounced in these more primal moments of need and desire and compulsion. And then his release surged through him, forcefully breaking that connection, leaving him in the dark again._

_He swiftly pulled from her - his essence trailing along her skin in curls of white, left behind — and dropped to his knees before her, prostrate as if in prayer, desperately longing to taste time on her, longing for some re-connection to the vortex he so sorely missed, some re-connection to her and to Her (his machine)._

_He drew his tongue along her thigh, tasting himself there along with the sweetness of her skin, her own essence mixed with the scent of the vortex, a taste he found positively addictive. She mewled as he curled his tongue against her, trailing it along her skin slowly, closer and closer to her sex, before burying it within her to drink all she had to give._

_Soon her body shuddered against him - her cries of the name he'd given her — 'Doctor' — punctuated with repetitious moans until her body finally stilled before him._

_He stood quickly, pressed a soft kiss to her forehead and then secured his mask in place again as he turned to the refrigerator, his manner now as cold as his flesh. "So, what's for dinner, then?"_

_He could feel her angry gaze burning into his back — again, so much fire — willing him to look at her again as an object of desire, as someone he might even love, but the moment had passed and he had to move forward as he always did._

* * *

He settled at the bar and ordered a drink — a Harvey Wallbanger, on recommendation from the bartender.

The Doctor rarely drank alcohol (and when he did, it generally involved bananas), but Donna always fancied a nice cocktail, complete with a garishly colored umbrella, usually in the form of a Screwdriver. He still had to figure where _he_ fell along the spectrum of taste and palate when it came to such things, but was, as always, open to experimentation. Upon asking for something akin to a Screwdriver from the bartender, this was what he was given. He accepted the drink with a shrug and a smile.

As he handed the bartender the money, he tried his best not to let the name of the drink draw him back too much to that day his other self was kissed by Donna in Lady Eddison's kitchen — _a kiss that was much to the surprise of them both._ The thing was he missed Donna desperately and, no matter how amusing that memory was, thinking of her was often so very bittersweet.

(As memories of Donna momentarily flickered through his thoughts despite his resistance, he found himself wishing that they - Donna and the Doctor - had talked more. So much went unsaid between them — feelings culled from the two of them locked deep within himself and given a special cognizance for him — so much that haunted his own thoughts in the dark hours of the night as he slept.)

He shut his eyes tight against the onslaught of emotions threatening to consume him in a blanket of depression and despair (something, it seemed, that he was always running from in this new life). No, this was not the time for such melancholy, not when he was feeling so very hopeful instead.

So then, after a deep cleansing breath, he regarded the drink before him and pushed all his focus on the present instead. He lifted the drink to his lips and scrunched his face up a bit at the sharp acidic taste of the orange juice, but soon enjoyed the infusion of vanilla and anise that followed and seemed to blend well with the juice. It was always interesting, he thought, how even if his senses were not as acute as _His_ were, they still seemed somewhat more sensitive to new tastes and sensations.

It was one thing he actually truly loved about this existence - the simple pleasure of just enjoying something new, something that was _his._

Sitting there at the bar, despite his past attempting to haunt him, he honestly thought he couldn't be happier — no matter how fleeting it might be — enjoying a new drink amidst the throng of loud revelers in the pub and smiling inwardly as he knew that Martha was just across the room from him, safe and happy and _so alive._

He looked across to the mirror before him, half-obscured behind liquor bottles, and gazed at his appearance. Though his hair was slightly disheveled from the wind outside (he self-consciously ran a hand through it to straighten it somewhat) and his skin was a bit more pale than usual, there was a shining glimmer in his eyes that warmed his heart a bit.

In fact, there was a lightness he felt being so close to Martha, truth be told, even if she wasn't His Martha or even _his_ Martha. It was as if for one night, he didn't need to dwell on absent friends, trying (and failing) to balance a chequebook, getting the rent paid on time, navigating a supermarket -

It's what drew him here again and again, that lure — that draw - to a happiness that seemed so often just beyond his reach, yet somehow achievable with her around.

"Hello there." The voice came from beside him, startling him a bit, a voice that was _so familiar._ He turned his head to his left —

"Tish!"

"How'd you know my name?" she asked, furrowing her brow in confusion, as she looked him up and down.

"Oh, I, well, I…" _Think of something._ "I overheard someone call you by your name when I came in. Just remembered it, is all. Had an old friend called Tish, so it stuck in my head. I'm good with names, well, sometimes, well, almost never really, but this time, yes, I remembered." He tapped his forehead.

She was eyeing him curiously and then turned to order something called a Dragonfly. "Not seen you around here before," she observed, now smiling at him, half-turned toward the bar and half- turned toward him.

"I've only been a few times. I live across town."

"Across town. I see," she said, still smiling at him, a smile that -

_Wait, is she flirting with me?_ he pondered with amused surprise. _Is Tish actually chatting me up?_ He tried to not laugh at the absurdity of the thought.

An uncomfortable silence quickly fell between them and she began to look around or, more specifically, no longer at him. He really didn't know how to play this game, not in the least. He certainly didn't 'pull women' as his flat mate Owen called it, and though he wasn't looking to 'pull' Tish at all, he didn't want to lose this opportunity to speak with her (and possibly, admittedly, in all honesty, _yes,_ speak to Martha as well).

Thankfully, the bartender broke the tension hanging in the air between them by handing Tish her drink. She began to reach into her purse to pay, but he stopped her. "Wait, I'll get that," he said, nervously reaching into his pocket to hand the bartender a few bills.

"Thanks," she said, her smile and attention returning. "What's your name?"

"John. John Smith."

* * *

_"John Smith," he introduced himself to the Pyanespian Ambassador, psychic paper in hand and smiling brightly, again his manic self after several months of being his more staid human counterpart, John Smith at Farringham, instead._

_He glanced over and noticed Martha flinch at his words, but he kept on with his charade nonetheless. "And this is my companion, Ms. Martha Jones."_

_Charming, but rather uninteresting conversation followed over a meal of fish and various vegetables with the Ambassador - and many other dignitaries, he supposed, though he wasn't sure — and then the two travelers were graciously shown to their accommodations for the evening._

_"Quite nice, if I do say so myself," he said with a jovial laugh as he looked around the room. "Especially for a planet that shares its name with the ancient Greek word for boiled beans."_

_"Yeah," Martha said simply, quietly._

_"How about," he moved closer to her, using his weight to slowly push her back against the door he'd just closed behind them, "we test out the bed?"_

_"Yeah, good idea, I should think some sleep is in order."_

_That was certainly not the answer he was expecting - her tone was even and she was barely looking him in the eye. He was, with much certainty, finding her behavior very perplexing._

_"Sleep?"_

_She shifted from him and walked away, across the room. "Yes, sleep."_

_"But…but at dinner you ate roasted maca, Lepidium meyenii. It's an aphrodisiac on Earth, yes, but on Pyanespian, well, let's just say it has quite a reputation in this galaxy."_

_"Lovely." She shrugged, pulling off her vest top, jeans, and shoes before settling in the bed in just her undergarments._

_Hurt, he stared at her for a long moment, her back toward him, as she lay facing the window. Unsure of what else to do, he pulled off his own clothes — naked before her, emotionally and physically, he mused — and slowly made his way closer to her. He took in a deep breath and then turned off the light and sank down onto the bed, curling up behind her._

_He had desperately hoped to feel her heat against him again, hoped to fill that void he'd felt after two months of being separated from her, trapped in the mind of a man who didn't need her the way he did. Her body only felt cold and tense to him now, though, as if she were recoiling from him as she — he could tell - pretended to sleep._

_"Don't you want me?" he whispered, feeling strangely shaken and vulnerable suddenly._

_It was difficult enough to get used to his old skin again — extending his consciousness along all its contours to truly be himself again and not just that simple man with his simple ideas — but he had expected, perhaps naively, that she would be there waiting for him when he returned._

_"Trying to sleep," she murmured and he felt anger now welling up within him, knowing she was wide-awake in the darkness and obviously trying to push him away, abandoning him._

_"Have you abandoned me?" he asked, wounded, his voice breaking a bit more than he wanted it to. "Shall I take you back home?"_

_She turned abruptly toward him, that fire suddenly returning, its blaze now threatening to consume him not with her desire, but with her rage instead. He wasn't sure if it was right that he should be so relieved to feel those flames licking his skin again, at least not like this — but he was. Oh, he was._

_"Abandoned you? You've got to be — " she paused, breathing heavily before him as if to try to calm herself. He could almost make her out in the soft moonslight - from the two red moons of Pyanepsian — coming through the window, the slight rubicund tint to her skin, again like fire, always fire with her. "Doctor, you abandoned me._

_ You abandoned me. And while we're on the subject, I'll be happy if I don't have to remember John Smith ever again. Can't you use a different name? I hate the sound of it now. That name's so rubbish anyway - "_

_"That wasn't me," he said, his teeth gritted as his own fury raged within him._

_"Whatever you say," she said dismissively, only fueling his fury even more._

_He grabbed her by the wrists and flipped her onto her back, his eyes adjusting more to the darkness to see more and more of her beautiful skin underneath him. She struggled against him, but he pushed his weight on top of her to stop her. "That wasn't me," he repeated, biting out each word with a growl._

_"Then why, if you remember everything that happened with him, did you make me feel like a total fool for saying that I loved you that night? You and I both know that I didn't just say it to get you to change." She was crying now. Oh, he hated when she cried._

_His chest tightened. "Because only fools love."_

_"You don't believe that."_

_"You, Martha Jones, don't know what I believe."_

_"And you wanted to bring Joan into this life of yours?" She gave a sarcastic laugh. "It's no wonder she ran when she saw what a monster you really are — "_

_"Stop," he shouted, startling them both. "I can hurt you Martha Jones - " he tightened his grip on her wrists. " — if you don't stop."_

_"You already have hurt me. Your mere existence in my life hurts me."_

_"You don't mean that," he said, softening his grip again, but still holding her still beneath him. He wasn't sure, but he thought this might be what it felt like to have her break his hearts._

_She silently looked up at him, anger burning in her eyes, and all he wanted was for things to stop, to go back to how they were before they'd run into The Family. He knew that he was far from perfect, even back then, and he knew that he could never be what she really wanted or needed, but this was much too much for him._

_(He needed her to at least believe in him. She was all he had.)_

_He leaned down and kissed her, rough and passionate, more animal than practiced, as she struggled below him. Once he finally pulled from her, she growled, "I'll never understand you as long as I live."_

_"I say the same thing about myself every day."_

_He shifted both her wrists to one hand, holding them both with his long slender fingers, and then trailed his other hand down to unclasp her bra, letting it fall open at her sides to expose her breasts. "You abandoned me," she said, her voice very small._

_"That wasn't me," he repeated, this time a whisper, this time more tender._

_His hand then slowly drifted down, fingertips dancing along the skin of her belly, until his fingers dipped underneath the waistband of her knickers, to slip down and touch her sex. "That wasn't me," he whispered again, now releasing her wrists, which, to his surprise, remained crossed above her head._

_He wondered if she no longer wanted to fight either._

_Martha started to moan, letting him touch her, the heat of her wetness now spreading through her limbs - that heat, that glorious heat, burning within her again, causing his hearts to ache and his cock to throb._

_He used his free hand to pull her knickers down and shifted himself between her legs to push his hard length inside her. "That wasn't me," he whispered again and again, each word now a whimper near her ear as he lay atop her, moving himself in and out of her, trying to connect with her again in the (his) darkness._

_His climax was approaching quickly, his senses overwhelmed with having her again, so he moved his hand between them, stroking the nub of her clit, urging on her own pleasure until she finally tensed up, legs tight around him, riding the waves of her climax beneath (and around) him. He called out with a loud grunt in response, his own release taking him, causing him to quake against her as he lost himself in her one more time._

_He collapsed against her bonelessly, exhausted (from the arguing, the yelling, the lovemaking, the loving), and they simply laid there in silence for several long minutes. "I hate you sometimes," Martha whispered from beneath him._

_"Oh my Martha Jones, you are far from alone in that," he said, swallowing hard, though trying to give a self-deprecating laugh, "I hate myself sometimes too."_

* * *

He squeezed himself into the booth, trying not to smile too much as he situated himself between Martha, Tish, and their two friends, Ian and Martin. It only took a moment, though, before that smile began to falter and the real nervousness kicked in.

His thoughts were soon filled with worries about not being fondly gregarious and affable enough with them, worries about making a bad first impression. You see, most days he was admittedly the socially awkward sort, and because of such struggles with his perceived social ineptitude, he often found himself wishing that he'd ended up with even half of _His_ charm.

This moment he felt that envy of Him even stronger than most.

"So, John, what do you do?" Ian asked.

"Do?" he asked, his palms now a bit sweaty as he pressed them against the seat cushion at his sides, feeling uncomfortable with the scrutiny. He was never one to like being the center of attention in all honesty; it always made him feel alien, even in his near-human skin. "Oh, as in work. I'm a scientist. I like science."

He dared a glance at Martha beside him, his stomach coiling with nerves as he noted she now looked at him with a bit of interest.

"He's a science geek. I should've known," Tish said with a groan.

He smiled to himself, her words pulling up the memories of the night her other self said exactly that to, well, _his_ other self, on that first night _He_ made love to (His) Martha -

"What sort of science?" Martha asked, her eyes now bright and curious.

"Well — "

"Oh, none of that boring stuff," Martin interrupted with a dismissive wave of his hand, and, just like that, the conversation quickly shifted to more mundane topics, such as this week's episode of _EastEnders_ and other random (useless) pop culture and bits of trivium.

In fact, the way things were going, he'd begun to give up hope of having any sort of real conversation with Martha that evening — mostly overrun by Martin whenever he tried to speak, causing him to want to shout him down, so much like Donna — until after about thirty minutes or so, Tish announced they were leaving to go dancing.

"I think I'll sit this time out," Martha replied, surprising him. "It's getting late."

"And you, John? Care to come dancing?" Tish asked, hand caressing his thigh as she smiled up at him.

"I think I'll pass as well, Tish. Thank you for the offer though."

"Suit yourselves," she stood up with a flourish and then, almost like a whirlwind, she left with Ian and Martin at her side.

"I should go then," he shyly offered to Martha, unsure of what to say when an awkward silence fell between them. He _was_ blocking her way out of the booth, after all. "You said it was getting late, I suppose that's my cue to get out of your hair."

"You don't have to. I mean, unless you want to, of course," she said, her tone almost coy. "I was just saying that to get rid of them."

"Oh. _Oh,"_ he said, trying to hold back another big smile. "But I thought that perhaps you and Martin were, well, you know — "

"Oh _god,_ no," she said, covering her face with her palm as she began to laugh. "Martin and Ian are together. Besides, can you imagine it? 'Martha and Martin', couples with similar names always sound like a bad soap opera to me."

"Like _EastEnders,_" he said with a cheeky smirk.

"Hey, I like _EastEnders._ Perhaps not as much as them, but when I've seen it, I've thought it was pretty good."

"Do you want to take a walk?" he asked suddenly, frowning a bit as he'd only just had the thought and hadn't anticipated the words slipping from his mouth so easily.

"A walk?"

"Yeah, you know, around the neighborhood, get some air. It's a bit hard to hear you over the loud music in here and, well, I do want to hear you." His near-human heart now pounded loudly in his ears.

_Did he have the power to lure her away like his other self did?_

She looked at him for a moment, as if sizing him up, and then smiled sweetly at him. "That sounds like a great idea," she said, finishing off her drink.

They were almost around the block when his hand found hers and, to his delight, she threaded her fingers through his, pressing her warm palm against his.

"So, you never got to say, what sort of scientist are you?"

"Ah yes, I think Martin didn't want me to speak about such things."

"Martin likes all the attention. I think he was just jealous."

"Of me?"

"Yes, you. Handsome bloke, all eyes on you. He probably couldn't stand you from the moment you sat down."

"How nice of him."

"Yeah, well. That's Martin. He's more Tish's friend than mine," she looked down at the pavement as she walked and then back up at him with curiosity. "So, again, you, scientist — "

"Ah yes, well, I'm a bit of a freelance scientist, for the government. Hush-hush and all that."

_"Freelance_ scientist, not familiar with that line of work."

"As I said, hush-hush and all that."

"Like in James Bond?"

_Again, his memories pulled him toward that night with the other Martha, Him walking along the street with her — _

"Yes, a bit like Q, actually," he looked down at her and winked, "but better."

"Not pompous at all, then?" she asked playfully, laughing.

He laughed along with her. It felt _good_ to laugh again. "Perhaps not."

"Well, I'm a medical student now, but then I'll be a doctor, if I ever pass my exams, that is."

"Oh you will, just you wait, and you'll be a brilliant doctor, _just brilliant,"_ he exclaimed.

_"Right._ What are you, psychic?"

"No, just a…gut feeling."

"Ah, so that's what your gut tells you about me."

"That and that I'm hungry. Care to grab something to eat with me?"

The two made their way to a trattoria nearby, sharing a nice late dinner of pasta, salad, and red wine. He admittedly felt a bit awkward at first, always challenged a bit by small talk (especially with someone who he'd been so enthusiastically to speak with), but overall — to his pleasant surprise — he was feeling mostly comfortable.

He'd imagined the possibilities of their first conversations over and over in his head so many times up until that evening that, while things were nowhere near identical to his fantasies, he did at least have a bit of conversation fodder in his head to try and fill any gaps of silence.

The two chatted amiably — him feeling delicious sparks between them as hands occasionally brushed hands on the table and knees brushed knees underneath — until the restaurant began to close for the evening, sending them back out onto the street, now a bit tipsy and fully holding hands again.

"I suppose I should go, then. It's almost time for the trains to stop running for the evening and I need make sure I get home," Martha said with a small frown as she looked up at him.

He ran his free hand nervously through his hair, trying desperately to think of a way to extend their evening together. _He just wasn't ready for things to end yet._ "How about we share a cab? It can drop you off at your place and I'll be on my way. I'll pay the fare and everything, my treat."

"You already bought dinner, I can't ask you to pay for a cab ride as well."

"I'd really like to, besides," he looked down at his watch, "at this hour we'd have to practically run to the station for the last train out. Wouldn't you prefer a more leisurely ride home instead?"

Martha looked down at her own watch and sighed. "You've got a point. Oh…alright."

He smiled widely at her and then turned toward the road to start to hail a cab. The cold was starting to get to him now, the wind blowing down the street against him, and he was starting to shiver, much to his embarrassment. He gasped in surprise though when he felt the warmth of Martha pressing against him, wrapping her arms around his middle from behind.

"Sorry, you just seemed really cold," she murmured against the fabric of his sweatshirt.

He kept one hand aloft for any passing cabs, but moved his other hand down to place on top of hers over his belly. He was glad for a moment that he was shivering from the cold because it helped hide the trembling now welling up inside him because of her proximity. "Thank you," he whispered. "Yeah, I _am_ a bit cold."

A cab stopped before them and the two of them jumped inside, Martha giving the driver the address to her house. "You really should have worn a jacket tonight. You don't want to catch yourself a cold, do you?" she playfully chastised him as the cab began to move.

"Haven't got one. I should probably remedy that, yeah?"

She laughed. "Yes, I should think so, especially with the weather turning. Come here," she opened her arms. He just looked at her puzzled. "Come on, I don't bite," she added, "just trying to warm you up a bit is all. It's the least I can do. Don't want you ending up in hospital."

He curled his body toward her, letting her wrap her arms around him so that he could settle against her. The soft wool of her coat and the slight rise and fall of her chest as she breathed felt _so nice_ as he cuddled against her. With his head tucked against her neck, he could really only hear a faint whooshing sound from his ear muffled against her shoulder, but the effect was so soothing that he honestly felt more at peace and safe than he had in a long, long time.

(For a moment, he could have sworn she'd sighed happily as he lay against her, but he wasn't sure if that was his imagination or perhaps too much wine playing with his perceptions. Still, she seemed as relaxed as he was, the light patter of her heartbeat below him slow and steady, and that too made him glad.)

The two simply sat in silence throughout most of the drive, though he mused that their bodies might still be maintaining a conversation between them — with the slight adjustments in pressure as she gradually held him tighter and tighter to her and the way she shivered in response when he breathed against her neck —

"You should come inside for a cuppa," she whispered.

"Sorry?" he asked, lifting his head slightly away from her to hear better, worried he might have misheard her.

"When we get to my flat, you should come inside for a cuppa," she repeated, clearing her throat. _Was she nervous?_ "To warm up, I mean. Can't have you staying cold, that'd make me a bad doctor-to-be."

"I…well…if you insist," he answered, a bit taken aback — though overjoyed — by her offer. "I'd hate to be a hassle though — "

"No, _no._ I wouldn't have offered if I thought so. Besides, I'm not sure I'm ready for sleep just yet and honestly - " she paused, looking out the window for a moment, before turning to look back down at him, " — I'd like the company."

He smiled in response and nuzzled back into her neck, enjoying the warmth she had to give.


	2. Chapter 2

_Jack had found him again, even dramatically traveled through the vortex clinging to the TARDIS like a madman. He should have been happy to see him, but there were too many reasons for him not to be._

_He sat in the abandoned warehouse they were hiding in — himself, Jack, and Martha — in front of a fire in a barrel as the others slept nearby. They were on the run from the Master now - his reemergence a stark and painful reminder of the darker days of his past, a reminder of a side of himself he never wanted to show them, especially Martha._

_As he watched the flames and sparks twisting and swirling from the light wind catching them, he thought how Jack was also a painful reminder of his past, especially of Rose._

_He knew that he was always sort of backward with Martha - the closer her got to her, the more harsh he'd become toward her, even fervently pushing her away with all he had to give on some days, which only led to more and more resentment on both sides. He never liked to admit it to himself, but sometimes he felt as if he might be punishing Martha for his feelings for her — for letting himself bask in the compelling heat of her wondrous fire — when perhaps he still should be mourning the loss of Rose instead._

_He'd withdrawn from Martha that night, withdrawn when he should be comforting her over the events with the Master, her family, the destruction of her home — but no, he pushed her away because there was something, some voice, deep inside him that didn't want him to show affection for her in front of Jack because of his connection to his past, to Rose, as if it might be a betrayal._

_He could hear Martha crying throughout the night, her tears tempting him toward her as he wanted to somehow assuage her fears (and his own), but he stayed back, sitting still in front of the other fire (which did not remotely compare to_

_ her fire), and trying not to let his stomach turn in regret and anger and envy when he saw Jack move toward her in the shadows, and hold her instead._

_Jack and Martha had been drawing together more and more since they'd met on Malcassairo, a small tight unit forming of them-against-him it seemed from the outside, so he knew that it was only a matter of time before Jack would make his move. That is what Jack does after all, and honestly, could he really blame him?_

_No, his arms would remain woefully empty that night, unable to enjoy the closeness of Martha when feeling the most frightened and alone he had in a long time. Still, he knew that despite his sadness, his longing, he only — as always — had himself to blame._

* * *

The cab arrived and he reluctantly moved to pay the driver (not wanting to pull from Martha's embrace, but succumbing to the necessity of it). The two of them then made their way outside of the vehicle to stand in front of her building. Part of him was not surprised to find that her flat seemed to be at the same address in this universe and it made him wonder for a moment how many more similarities there would be as he came to know her better.

"Here we are," she announced, taking his hand as she led him toward the front door. She was being a bit more assertive than he had imagined her to be, intriguing him.

Once inside and up the stairs, she fumbled for her keys in her pocket before opening the door to her flat to let them both in. The first thing that he noticed was that the size and shape of her flat on the inside appeared to be the same, if not very similar, to the flat he remembered from the other universe, but there were a few major differences in the décor, such as this flat's burgundy-colored walls and slightly different shaped couch.

"Let me put on the kettle," she offered, releasing his hand. She hung up her coat on a peg by the door and then strode across the living room toward the kitchen.

He watched her walk away and then, feeling a bit self-conscious about staring, he looked around him to take in his surroundings. His gaze lingered on a few pairs of her underwear hanging up on the clotheshorse by the door, but he quickly shook any lascivious thoughts from his head and slowly followed her into the kitchen to distract himself.

"Sorry it's not that tidy," she called out, jumping a bit as she turned to find him right behind her.

He'd not meant to startle her, of course, he'd only hoped to be closer to her again — already feeling the slight pang of emptiness of their separation since they'd exited the cab. He immediately felt embarrassed about his intrusion into her personal space, though, chastising himself inwardly, and took a few awkward steps backward.

"You should see my place. I've got papers, books, and gadgets everywhere," he answered, leaning against the counter just a few feet from her, while trying to seem nonchalant and ignore the steady the rush of nerves mounting within him. "My flat mate hates me sometimes, in fact, but I do my best to try to keep my mess contained to my bedroom and office."

"So, you live with someone?" she asked, pulling down some tea from the cupboard, her back still mostly to him.

"Yeah, he's called Owen. He's a doctor actually."

"A doctor? Which hospital does he work at? Maybe I've met him."

"Oh, he's not at a hospital. He, well, he works for the government as well — medical research and all that — "

"More hush-hush stuff, then?" she said, smiling at him over her shoulder.

"Yeah, basically," he replied with a chuckle.

"So, does he work with you or is there some sort of flat mate match-up service I'm unaware of for people with hush-hush jobs?"

This time he giggled — _giggled and giggled._ Perhaps the wine was going to his head, but it took him a good long moment before he could breathe again from the fit of laughter.

"No, but that's good, I like that." Holding his sides, he finally replied. "But yeah, he does work at the same place I do, that's how we met."

"Such a wonderful mystery you are, John," she said with a big smile, handing him a mug of the tea she'd just prepared. "Sugar's right over there and I have milk if you need. I also have some chocolate digestives to nibble on."

"Thank you," he replied, taking the proffered mug and stepping over to the sugar bowl to scoop a few spoons into the tea.

He was behind her again, practically leaning over her to reach the sugar in small space of her kitchen. She was so close, in fact, that he could smell her hair again — the faint scent of jasmine teasing his senses — and her neck was so close, so tantalizing, that he wanted to kiss it (too afraid to do so when he was still in the car with her).

She turned around in front of him, so very close as she looked up at him with an expression that he couldn't read, and then quite suddenly, grabbed him by the nape of his neck and pulled him downward. She pressed her lips against his and he almost stumbled into her from the unexpected shift in his balance, but he was thankfully able to safely set his mug down on the nearby counter to return her kiss.

Her fingers found his hair and caressed his scalp while his own hands reached upward to caress her cheeks as the kiss deepened. He let out a light moan as he felt her tongue slide past his lips and tease the roof of his mouth, but any embarrassment quickly gave way to the simple pleasure of her kissing him — fingers slipping down to the nape of his neck, her nails scratching faint circles against the sensitive skin there.

It had been a long time since he'd kissed anyone (his separation from Rose had occurred several months before and he'd not been romantically involved with anyone since) and definitely the first time he'd kissed Martha, at least in this body. His body's reactions were warring between his growing nervousness and his growing arousal, but he wanted to do everything _right._ This kiss was unexpected, but that wonderful type of unexpected that leaves you elated and amazed. The last thing he wanted was for it to end awkwardly.

They finally pulled from each other, winded from the kiss as they pressed the foreheads together. "I think the tea's getting cold," she panted.

"Bugger the tea." He bit his lip, surprised by his own words, a bit of his Donna-self slipping through the cracks of his own persona.

"But it was meant to warm you up."

He laughed, surprised that she somehow didn't understand that her kiss had warmed him more than any liquid might. "Oh, you've already done that, I assure you," he whispered, feeling suddenly shy.

_What if she is already regretting the kiss?_ he thought, _What if she is trying to get out of the situation by changing the subject at hand?_

"Have I?" she asked, her tone seemingly playful. He pulled from her to look down at her, desperate to read any sort of reaction from her, some indication of where things should go next. No mistakes, he wanted no mistakes.

"Yes," he breathed and then reached up to draw the back of his knuckles lightly over her cheek. "And would it be horribly inappropriate of me to ask if I could kiss you again?"

Martha opened her mouth, looking as if she was about to answer when they heard her phone, interrupting them. She looked toward its shrill ringing in the living room and then back up at him. "Just ignore it, the answerphone will get it," she said, with a dismissive wave of her hand. "I'm not expecting any calls."

A few rings later, Tish's voice rose from the answerphone's speaker. _"Martha, are you there? Just checking to see if you made it home all right. You were acting a bit odd at the pub, but I bet that was probably because of that sexy John bloke. He really seemed your type, you know, perhaps you should've given him your number…"_

"Oh my god," Martha exclaimed, a blush colouring her cheeks as she pulled from him and darted across the room to pick up the receiver. "Tish, hello, how are you?" she said, turning her back to him.

He could make out that she had her hand on her forehead, most likely embarrassed, but he had to admit that Tish's words had thrilled him a little — _'sexy John bloke'_ — and he gave a smug smile.

He then picked up his tea, still warm enough to savor, and began to drink it as he looked around the kitchen, trying to distract himself from eavesdropping on her conversation. Besides, what he could hear wasn't making much sense anyway, just a series of 'yes' and 'no' and 'yellow' and 'green.' He could tell that her tone was now a bit exasperated, though, and he worried that perhaps the disruption might have derailed things between them completely.

In a way, he supposed he was relieved for the distraction though, if he were honest. Things had begun to surprisingly move very fast between them and while he was certainly finding himself interested in more…'passionate endeavors' with Martha, he didn't want seem like just a 'bloke on the pull' with _nothing else_ on his mind —

Perhaps the interruption was what the both of them needed to bring them back to their senses.

So, he sighed deeply before taking a long sip of the tea — _jasmine, just like her hair,_ he mused — and decided that if she were in fact having second thoughts and asked him to leave after her conversation with Tish, he would be a gentleman and do so without reserve.

"Sorry about that," she finally said, now off the phone and approaching him in the kitchen. She seemed almost business-like with him now.

"No worries," he replied simply, still unsure of his footing in their current predicament.

She walked over to him and picked up her own mug of tea and sipped it, frowning immediately. She then walked over and dumped the tea into the sink and returned to make some fresh tea for herself. He'd started to back away as she moved around the kitchen, not wanting to get in her way and also mentally preparing himself for his inevitable exit. There was a tension hanging in the air between them and he wasn't sure — unable to read her social cues enough yet - if it was positive or negative in nature.

"Let's go sit on the couch," she said, grabbing a tin of biscuits before walking back into the living room.

He tentatively followed her and when he sat down on the couch, he left a large space between them, not wanting to make any assumptions about how close she wanted him. She smirked at him as she placed the biscuit tin on the coffee table before them. "Tish wants to know if she should send Leo over," she stated simply with an embarrassed laugh.

"Leo?" he asked, feigning ignorance.

"Yeah, my older brother."

He furrowed his brow, _"Older_ brother?"

"Yeah, he's 25. I'm 23," she replied with a shrug. "Older."

"Oh."

He was trying not to look too surprised, for he knew from experience that things in this universe were often not the same as the other. He remembered quite vividly how upset Rose had been when she'd found her counterpart in this universe was essentially a terrier with the same name, so birth order changes were probably comparatively low on his list of strange differences between the parallels.

"So, why would Leo need to come over?" he added, feeling nervous around her again.

Martha laughed again, placing her mug down on the table before pressing her hand to her forehead. "Because you're here," she said awkwardly. "Older siblings, always so over-protective."

"Oh," he said again, shifting on the chair, as he suddenly felt too hot in the layers of clothing he was wearing. "Should I…leave?"

She dropped her hand to her lap and regarding him curiously for a long moment. "Do you _want_ to leave?"

"I…well," he paused. He hadn't expected that question. In fact, in that moment, his feelings seemed practically irrelevant. "Does it matter?"

"To me, it does."

"Well, then," he paused again, taking in a deep breath and pulling the small throw pillow by his side into his lap to grasp for emotional support. He squeezed the small cushion tightly, blowing out the breath. "No, I don't want to leave. Not yet, anyway."

"Good," she said, a small smile slowly lighting up her face as the mood between them began to lighten as well.

"Good?"

"You're such an enigma, John."

"So, you've said."

"There's just something I can't work out about you." She turned to sit sideways against the armrest as she gazed at him, her deep brown eyes so obviously analyzing him, scrutinizing him, and feeling as if she was penetrating him to his very core. He felt oddly exposed.

"And that is?" he asked, his voice breaking slightly from nerves.

"Tish was really interested in you tonight, flirted with you, charmed you, but you showed no interest back. I'm not sure I've ever seen a man, well, a _straight_ man, immune to that. My sister's not used to getting a no when it's something that she wants. It was truly odd to witness," she paused, narrowing her eyes at him as if her analysis was deepening, as if trying to see into his soul. "Even more odd though, was that I might've written you off as just gay or asexual or something, I don't know, but the way you've been around me is quite the opposite."

Her gaze broke and she looked down, as if suddenly self-conscious about her line of questioning. "Why's that so odd?" he asked, somewhat confused.

"Tish," she looked up and pointed up to a framed picture of her sister on the wall beside her. She then pointed the finger at herself, "Me."

"I'm not following."

She groaned. "Do I have to spell it out? Oh, who cares? It's not like I'm likely to ever see you again after this, is it? _Tish_ is the pretty one, the one all the boys like and I'm…well, I'm not."

"I'm not trying to dissolve your apparently grand theory of your existence, but I honestly have to beg to differ."

"Sorry?"

"Tish is pretty, yes, and she's a lovely woman from what I can tell, but she isn't you. I don't know about 'all the boys' as I can only speak for myself, really. I mean, I never understood things like 'all the boys' anyway, what does that mean, really? No matter, not important, what I'm trying to say, trying and probably failing, is that you're the one that turns _my_ head, Martha. I, well, I wouldn't be here otherwise."

He gripped the pillow tighter, his fingers almost numbing with the tension that was moving through his body and continued, "I mean, I'm quite sure it's weird for you to have a stranger in your house the first night and all after you've met them, but trust me, it's truly just as weird for me _to be_ that stranger. I'm the type would have usually left you at the pub and, well, maybe, perhaps, shyly given you my phone number if I'd been able to get up the nerve, or whatever it is that people do when they want to see someone again, but probably not. The thing is, though, I like you, I really do and I didn't want you to get away so easily. I don't know what that means after tonight, and god I'm regretting all that wine from earlier making me say all of this, but it seems, I suppose, that it needed to be said."

Martha's expression softened and she laughed again, shaking her head. "Grand theory of my existence?"

The tension was definitely starting to dissolve between them. "It sounded good at the time?" he offered awkwardly.

"It may've been one of the more bizarre chat-up lines I've heard in my day, but I have to say it was pretty effective."

"Effective?" he asked, feeling a sudden sense of wonderment.

"Come here," she summoned him to her and he immediately dropped the pillow onto the floor, crawling over until he was above her, his back arched and his hands on either side of her on the armrest. "I don't know how I managed to turn your head, John, but I really like you too. In fact, I think I might like that other kiss now, that is, if the offer's still on the table."

He smiled widely down at her, the feeling of elation that swept through him dissolving all of the remaining tension from the moment before. "Oh yes, indeed it is," he leaned down and captured her lips with his own, enjoying a long languorous kiss with her.

* * *

_The goodbye kiss — so quick and chaste — almost felt like a punch to his gut._

_He'd dreamt of this moment with Martha again and again during that year they were apart, nightmares plaguing him while she was still traveling the Earth below in his honor, but he still hoped that it would somehow never come._

_He'd held on so tightly to the console in the TARDIS when she walked back in through the doors - doing his best to just stay standing, to somehow brace himself for her departure - that he thought ruefully that he might break his ship as well as his hearts. And when she held him a few moments later, he worried that he might never be able to let go._

_"Martha Jones, you saved the world," he'd said, but what he left out was that she'd saved him too. In all the bitterness and all the angst, she'd always been his one beacon of hope._

_"Are you going to be alright?" she'd asked him and he lied to her — lied as he so often found himself doing, even when it shamed him — "Always."_

_And then she was gone from him._

_She came back a moment later, of course, and his hopes rose momentarily at her return, but after a few words he knew she was still saying goodbye as she finally said, "This is me, getting out."_

_And then she was gone for good this time and he had nothing left of her but her mobile. Nothing left of what they'd had together, what he'd gone and destroyed between them._

_For months he would memorize that mobile, memorizing every centimeter of it as he stared at it for hours on end, wishing for it to ring. When it finally did though, his worst fears were confirmed — she had moved on from him completely._

* * *

She led him into her bedroom, walking backward and pulling him by both of his hands - her mobile chirping in her pocket the only thing stopping them once in through the doorway.

He momentarily cursed inwardly about the repeated ill timing of phone calls that evening, but then as she took the call, he also tried not to stare at the mobile in her hand, which he knew, with the greatest certainty, was the very same mobile her other self had — the same mobile his other self had mourned over for so long.

He started to the feel traces of _His_ sadness deep within himself at just seeing it again, but soon felt his heart flutter lightly instead when she looked up at him with a mischievous glint in her eyes, and simply said 'Green' before ending the call and slipping the mobile back into her pocket.

"Tish?" he asked, letting her pull him again until they stopped near the bed.

"Yes."

"Can I ask why you speak in mysterious colours?"

"Codes."

"Codes?"

"Yeah."

"And green means?"

"Can't you guess?" she replied with a wink. He smiled and leaned down to press his lips against hers in response.

Her hands were on his hooded sweatshirt now and he broke the kiss to help her pull it off over his head. "So many layers," she murmured, running a hand over the green and grey long sleeved t-shirt he was wearing underneath and then pulled both it and the white vest he was also wearing off as well, leaving his chest bare.

(Layers of clothing was one of the few things that he still shared in common with Him, hiding himself such layers to not only deal with the inborn traces of shame of his body culled from Gallifreyan culture — where exposing your body in public was considered a dishonor to your family — but also the shame of this body's figure — 'skinny streak of nothing' he could hear his inner-Donna-voice say in revulsion, a voice he often heard when looking at his body in a mirror.)

He started to worry what Martha would think of seeing his body, started to want to put all his clothes back on again to cover up. She'd never said if she liked His body, what if she didn't like his?

No, he was feeling far too exposed standing before her - he crossed his arms over his chest to hide himself.

"What's wrong?" she asked sweetly, her fingertip trailing along the length of one of his arms, causing him to tremble. "Are you cold again?"

He looked down at himself self-consciously. "Just a bit uncomfortable," he said, his voice only just above a whisper.

"Should we stop?" she asked, pressing a hand to his chest beneath his crossed arms, her hand so close to his heart that he worried she might be frightened off by how fast and hard it was now beating.

(Rose had pressed her hand to the same place on his chest that first time at Bad Wolf Bay, his first day on this world, and he remembered quite vividly how she ran away from him just afterward, ran for _Him_ instead, repulsed by him. Maybe Martha would run too?)

"I…don't know," he stammered.

"Is it me? Am I going too fast for you?"

"No, no, I just, I don't know — "

She looked up at him and her eyes seem to focus on his with a glimmer of recognition. "Are you hiding yourself from me?"

He blew out a deep breath. "Yeah," he whispered.

She leaned forward, placing a kiss on his chest between his arms. "Seems I'm not the only one who doesn't believe they're beautiful."

Her hands slid up to his arms and she slowly uncrossed them, placing them at his sides. He felt the urge to stop her, to keep himself hidden, but he felt powerless to do so as he looked down at the soothing expression on her face.

She pressed more kisses to his chest, taking care to suckle and lick his nipples, causing his legs to almost buckle from the electric bolts of pleasure. Her fingers slid down his sides to find the button and zip of his jeans and she slowly opened them, releasing the hardness that was now achingly pressed tight against the denim there.

She pushed his jeans down over his hips to pool at his feet and then her fingers wrapped around his erection, slowly moving up and down along its length. He moaned at the delicious juxtaposition of her touch and the light nibbling she applied to one of his nipples — the flesh caught so pleasurable between her teeth — and focused all his will on just keeping upright as his legs threatened to buckle again.

"Martha, why're you doing this?" he breathed, surprising himself that he'd stated his wonderment aloud.

"Because I think sometimes people should have what they want. And this," she squeezed his cock slightly, causing him to growl in response, "is what we both want tonight."

They were both naked now, the soft light from the small lamp on her bedside locker beautifully illuminating the contours of her skin as he looked down at her from above on her bed. He was kneeling between her legs, just taking in the extraordinary sight of her for a long moment, but he quickly shifted to his belly there, to lick and nibble the insides of her thighs instead.

He'd felt suddenly consumed with the desire to taste her with this body, with this mouth, with these senses. She might not have the taste of the time vortex on her skin, but her own natural taste, he quickly found, was no less addictive.

He pushed his tongue inside the heated wetness at the apex of her thighs, a heat that beckoned his body just as it had His, yet still so very different. He was not cold against her heat, or alien against her humanity — a love borne of opposite extremes was fading rapidly to be replaced instead by a love borne of similarities and compatibilities.

He suckled and licked her sex, coaxing the pleasure from her, enjoying all the wonderfully soft, _human_ sounds she made in response. He understood how He could have been so entranced by her other self in such moments, the firm swell of power blazing within him as her climax drew nearer and neared until her essence spilled against his eager tongue and her body writhed against him in release.

He continued to move his mouth against her, unwilling to move just yet, contemplating the possibilities of just staying there for hours, just delighting in her. _That was the problem with Him,_ he mused, _he never stayed around to bask in the bliss of such things, but instead always ran away too soon. _

Martha let him continue to pleasure her for a few minutes longer before her fingers, now threaded tightly into his hair, pulled him upward toward her. He eased along her body, moaning as, once he was arched over her again, she had pulled his head down to passionately kiss her again, the hard peaks of her nipples now pressing against his chest.

He pulled from the kiss a few moments later, his forehead pressed against hers as they both caught their breath again. "I want you inside me," she panted and he felt a resultant throb in his groin at her words.

He reached over to grab the condom they'd set on the bedside locker — which he'd been pleased she had, as it hadn't even occurred to him to bring one along himself — and then shifted back upward onto his knees again to put it on. He noticed Martha was watching him intently as he rolled the latex over himself and he blushed slightly at the look of near-concupiscence glittering in her eyes.

He then shifted himself down to press his hardness between her legs, the tip pressed just tantalizingly against her entrance, as he began to kiss her again. His kisses soon trailed down along her neck and over to her ear, where he pulled the lobe between his teeth and bit down lightly.

She arched upward against him in response, causing the head of his cock to enter her very slightly with her movement and the two of them to moan.

He then released her ear and whispered, "I just want you to know that I'm not going anywhere, not until you ask me to - " He paused to fully push himself inside her, causing them both to gasp and groan from the deepened penetration, " - for you're more beautiful than you know."

He began to move against her, his arms slipping beneath her to hold her to him as her legs wrapped around him to apparently do the same. He was feeling almost overwhelmed by how wonderful she felt, the heat of her seeming to push outward and engulf both their bodies with its fiery blaze. He knew he wasn't going to last long — no, months of longing in this body, dreaming of her, remembering His Martha, feeling so lost, only to finally feel so connected again, only to finally feel _so very right_ — was enough to just about undo him on the spot -

"I'm not going to last much longer," he whimpered and then was surprised as she shifted her weight against him, pushing him onto his back.

She sat above him, looking down with a smile. "Then perhaps we should slow down a bit," she said, pausing as her hips began to move ever so languidly against him. He gasped at the sensation, the pleasure causing his limbs to tremble beneath her, but he held fast and held back his climax. "I do want you to enjoy this after all."

He simply watched her moving atop him — taking in the beauty of the curve of her breasts, the slight swell of her body, and the way she bit her lip in ecstasy as she rode him. He couldn't look away for she held his human heart in the palm of her hand and, after months of desiring nothing but the chance to be near her, here she was so close, so intimate, that it was as if their souls were touching.

His thoughts went back to his words, so open, so laid bare — _'I just want you to know that I'm not going anywhere, not until you ask me to.'_ — and he suddenly worried that he'd said too much, not held his cards close to his chest for long enough. Even in His most vulnerable moments, He was always able to keep his mask secured, divert her attention from what was really going on between them. Did he need to don such a mask? Would she love him or hate him if he dared to try?

The staccato of her moans drew his attention and he could feel the sensual tugging against his hardness from inside her as another climax rose within her. Her body writhed wonderfully against his, coaxing his own pleasure as well until she looked down at him with so much aching tenderness that it caused his own climax to hit with such force that he pushed upward, rutting against her like an animal. His hands held her hips tightly as his body spasmed and trembled beneath her and he felt lost to the sensation as _wave after wave after wave_ of pleasure coursed through him.

No, he couldn't bear to ease such mask over himself now, not when she made him feel like that, not when she — not His Martha, but perhaps, maybe, _his_ Martha — _looked_ at him like that. This was a new beginning after all, not a useless retread of His misjudgments and omissions, since to embark on such an erroneous journey between them would be unfair to them both.

He looked up into her eyes — eyes at once so familiar yet so unknown — and knew in that moment, with utter clarity, that he wanted to know everything about her and, quite to his surprise, he wanted her to know everything about him. No secrets or masks. No cryptic lies or being otherwise recondite —

They were two strangers on the precipice of something that had the potential to be so much bigger than either of them could comprehend. It was at once frightening and exhilarating.

He smiled widely up at her, his one human heart racing in elation as he reached up to her and stroked the side of her face with his (trembling) palm. For a moment, he felt cold again - he always felt so damned cold in this body, but she lay across him now, capturing his lips with her own as her body pressed to his.

She kissed him with words flowing between them caught in the net of curling of tongues and the movement of teeth, words that were simultaneously spoken, yet unspoken. And then the cold retracted from him, now dominated by the warmth — _her_ warmth - surrounding him suddenly, a warmth smoldering between them, _skin against skin._ And he knew he was finally where he needed to be, where he belonged.


End file.
